Page 4

Chapter Three

Cole

Eight weeks later

“A ll right, Mr. Grumpy pants. Are you ready for your next exercise?” the physical therapist chirps, a fake smile plastered on her face.

I’m surprised she hasn’t smacked the shit out of me yet, to be honest. I’m being more of an asshole than usual, and I know it. But I have a good reason—at least to me it's a good reason. Not only does this shit hurt like a motherfucker, but my dick has been hard since the moment I laid eyes on her. The usual bottle blonde therapist they stuck me with isn’t here today, and this beauty is filling in for her.

“No.” She raises her eyebrow in my direction, causing me to chuckle softly. “Hey, you’re the one who asked.”

“Fair enough.” She giggles, rolling her eyes at me before turning away.

My eyes focus on her generous hips as she moves around the table, bending at the hip to reach down and grab something. My mouth salivates as her black leggings stretch over her ample hips and thick thighs, accentuating her beautiful curves. Her shirt rises, a tiny sliver of warm sepia tone skin on her back coming into view. What I wouldn’t?—

“Are you listening to me?” The sound of her voice brings me back to the present.

“Yeah. Yeah. New exercise time,” I grumble before sliding off the bench and adjusting my junk as discreetly as possible.

I don’t know what it is about this minx, but I’ve reverted to my thirteen-year-old self. A boy who literally pops a boner at the thought of being near a pretty girl. Everything about this woman is calling to me, pulling me toward her in a way I’ve never thought about another human being. Nope, this isn’t happening. I just need to figure out a way to get this goddess out of my system, and then I can focus on what’s most important. Getting my shoulder back into shape and getting my ass back on the ice where I belong.

“Don’t think I could persuade you to hold off until the next session for the new exercises?” I smirk in her direction, throwing in a wink just for good measure, but she doesn’t budge.

“Nope.” She pops the P, a bright smile on her face as she hands me the stick we usually use for my workouts. “Now that you’re over six weeks post-op, Stacey thinks you’re ready to progress to the next stage of therapy.”

“Stacey?” I search my mind for anyone I know by that name, but come up empty. “Should I know who that is?”

“She’s your usual therapist.” She eyes me skeptically before crossing her arms under her ample breasts and pushing them higher. “Didn’t you even bother to learn her name?”

“No,” I respond, my eyes remaining focused on her face.

We stare at each other for what feels like an eternity, her cheeks turning a delicious shade of pink before she looks away.

“But your name is Michele. With one L.” I wink before holding out my hands for the newest piece of torture.

“At least we know you can read,” she snarks back before placing the stick in my hands. “Now, let’s get started. I need you to bend your elbows slightly for this exercise.”

Michele places both her hands gently on my shoulders as she continues speaking, but I stop listening. The only thing I can focus on is the way her hand feels as it runs along my arm, checking to ensure I’m doing the exercise correctly. Fuck. This woman is only touching my arm. I can’t imagine what would happen if she were touching me somewhere a little more intimate.

“Are you sure you couldn’t think of something better for the two of us to do instead of some more boring exercises?”

Okay, that wasn’t my best pickup line, but it’s what I could come up with. I am working at a much different advantage than usual. Between the new medications the doctor gave me to deal with the pain and being in the last place I want to be right now, I’m operating under a bit of a handicap.

“Is that the best you can come up with?” The corner of her mouth quirks up into a small smile as she runs her hand down her long ponytail, throwing it back over her shoulder. “Your left arm is going to help your right arm do this workout. I want you to lift the stick enough so you feel a stretch and then hold it for ten seconds.”

I push my arm back, feeling the stretch almost immediately, a slight tugging sensation in my shoulder that isn’t too bad but doesn’t tickle either. “I could’ve come up with something better, but I didn’t want to waste the opportunity.”

What the hell are you doing, Hendrix? You can walk out of here and get any girl you want. But that’s the problem. I don't want just any girl. I want Michele.

“I don’t date patients.”

“But I’m not your patient. I’m Stacey’s, unless there is a change to the therapy schedule I wasn’t aware of. I may have to speak to your manager.”

Michele's eyes widen in surprise as she snorts loudly, bringing attention to the two of us.

“This is definitely a first for me.” I drop the stick from my right hand and bring my hand toward her face. Crooking my index finger and running it down the bridge of her nose. “I’ve never made someone snort when asking them on a date.”

“I guess there is a first time for everything.” Michele ducks her head slightly, breaking eye contact and busying herself with something under the table. “Ready for the next exercise?”

I should let this go, give her a minute to regain her composure, but I don’t. “Don’t you want me to do a few sets of this one?”

“Are you always this much of an annoying asshole?”

“Yes, but I’ve been told it was part of my charm.” I smile brightly at her before starting a second set. The familiar burn in my muscles returns as I count off my reps softly.

“Whoever told you that was lying.” Michele taps me softly on the left arm and adjusts my hands slightly on the bar. “You should focus on these exercises, not your next date.”

“I can’t seem to focus on anything else. Just agree to go out with me and put us both out of our misery.”

It’s rare that I have to work this hard for anything. I can’t seem to go anywhere without someone noticing me, especially around here, but I’m enjoying this. It’s hard to know if someone is interested in you because of who you are as a person or because of what you can do for them. It’s only a matter of time before someone tells her that Cole Hendrix is flirting with her, desperately trying to get her to go on a date with him, but she is worth the embarrassment.

Michele turns away from me, giving me her back as I wait for her to respond. I continue with my reps, pausing for ten seconds to rest before starting again. “I’ll think about it if you can get through the rest of the session with no more interruptions or giving me any more lip.”

My attitude has also been a little more surly than usual because I still haven’t heard anything about my status on the Wolverines. Remy promised he was taking care of everything, but I’ve been out of the hospital for almost eight weeks now. They should’ve decided one way or the other by now. Needless to say, I’ve been in an even shittier mood than usual for many reasons, but right now, it’s these goddamn exercises.

Another snarky comment is on the tip of my tongue, but I swallow it down. “I can try, but I make no promises.”

“Why does this not surprise me?” She brushes her bangs from her face before instructing me to turn around. “Push both your hands to the center of the bar so they are touching. If you can’t get your hands together without pain, that’s okay. You can separate them slightly to a point where you have only minor discomfort.”

Minor discomfort? Does Michele not know that these exercises by themselves are fine, but after doing them for almost an hour with only a few moments of rest between each exercise, it’s equivalent to torture. I want to tell her to fuck all the way off and refuse to do anymore of these exercises, but I don’t. I need to do whatever they ask so I can get the all clear to get back on the ice. The surgeon already told me that recovery time is usually a year before patients recover their full range of motion, but I don’t have that kind of time. I need to prove my worth on the ice, whether it be for the Wolverines or another team, or I can kiss my dreams of winning the Stanley Cup goodbye.

“With your hands in a comfortable position, I want you to slide your hands up your back to where you feel an increased stretch.” Michele places her hand on my elbow, tapping it once to tell me to stop. “Now hold for ten seconds and then release. Good job, Cole. Now, again.”

The pain in my shoulder becomes increasingly more uncomfortable, but I continue. My mind is focused on getting through these exercises and spending more time with Michele. Not the best motivator for someone who’s supposed to be focusing on their hockey career, but right now, I don’t give a fuck about anything else.

“Don’t forget to take a break between each set, Hot Shot.” Michele tsks as I bring my arms down and immediately move to start the process again. “You need to rest for a count of three between each rep.”

I reluctantly follow her instructions as I bring my arms down and wait for a count of three before starting the process over again until I’ve done ten reps.

“Hot Shot, huh?”

“It fits, don't you think?” Her cheeks pink once again as she winks at me, leaning slightly to the right to check my hand placement on the bar. “How do you feel?”

Like someone is trying to rip my arm out of the socket, but I won’t tell her that. “Peachy. Maybe think of something harder next time.”

Michele’s eyes light with excitement. “Harder, you say? I got the perfect exercise for you, then. I don’t want you reporting back to Stacey that I went easy on you.”

I pull my arms upward, feeling the stretch almost immediately. Instead of stopping there, I push a little further. Pain shoots through my right shoulder, causing me to wince slightly, but I push through it and complete my final set.

“I can’t wait.” I fake enthusiasm as she gives me instructions to continue my reps.

Michele opens her mouth to give me another exercise as my phone rings loudly, causing her to sigh. “Cole, you know the rules. No cell phones in the therapy area.”

“Oh, it’s back to Cole now? What happened to Hot Shot?” I place the stick on the table and reach beneath it for my phone. Remy’s annoying face flashes on the screen. “Stacey said I could bring it in here if I had it on silent.”

“I distinctly remember hearing an annoying-ass ring, which means your phone was definitely not on silent.”

“Fair enough, but I’ve been waiting for this call from my agent for weeks.” I flash her one of my patented smiles, dimples and all, knowing no woman can resist the dimples. Well, no woman except my drop-dead gorgeous substitute physical therapist.

“Fine, we can call it a day. I only had one more exercise for you today anyway. Don’t forget to stop at the front and confirm your next appointment.”

Michele flashes me another fake smile before moving to walk past me, but I grip her wrist. Her eyes widen in surprise before dropping to my hand on her wrist and snapping back to mine.

I immediately release her hand, holding my free one up in surrender, the other hand clutching my still-ringing phone to my chest. “What about our date?”

“What date? I said you needed to get through the rest of the sessions without any interruptions. That is definitely an interruption,” she quips before lifting her hand, patting my cheek softly before turning to head toward the back of the therapy area. “See you around, Hot Shot.”

“See you around, Trouble.” I wink at her for good measure, causing her to giggle. My eyes never leave her as she sashays into a back room and out of view.

“God damn it, Remy. Lord help you, if this is just another one of your check-up calls, I’m going to strangle you.”

“Why are you so violent this afternoon? Have a bad time at physical therapy today?”

“You have no fucking idea,” I mumble before reaching under the table for my key and sauntering toward the door. I need to stop and double-check my next appointment, but at this point, Michele might come back and accept my offer. No, I’m not desperate; I just want to make sure to cover all my bases before I miss out on a chance to spend time with the girl of my dreams. Okay, I’m being a little extra, but that’s not the point right now, is it?

I don’t answer his question because what’s the point? I missed out on a date with a woman I’ll probably never see again. I can lick my wounds in peace later. Right now, I need to know why the hell Remy called. It's always better to get right to the point with him, or I could be on the phone forever. “Any news?”

“No hello?”

“No.” I sigh, having zero patience for his shit any more than usual. “Tell me what you got for me, or I’m hanging up.”

Remy has been my agent since I entered the league at almost eighteen. What I didn’t know at the time was that he was from Redwood Falls, just like me, and he was friends with Cooper. Not to mention, he was also Cooper's agent. By the time I figured out the connection between the two of them, Remy had already brokered a nearly million-dollar deal for me to play for the Boise Wolverines for the next five years. I could’ve fired him after that, but I was young, not stupid. I don’t know anyone who would fire someone who made them that much money at eighteen. Thankfully, we had a lot in common, and he loved hockey just as much as I did. However, instead of going pro like most of us, he went to college, deciding to help guide the next generation off the ice instead of on.

“Testy today, aren’t we? How did your therapy session go?”

“Fine. You actually interrupted me, and my therapist called my session early.”

“You shouldn’t have answered the phone, Cole. Therapy is more important than whatever I have to say.”

“I know, but we only had one more exercise, so she cut me out early. Said I worked hard and wanted me to rest my shoulder before my next session in a few days.”

Okay, most of that is a crock of shit, but he doesn’t need to know that. I get enough lecturing from Momma and Beau about doing my stretches and exercises regularly. I really don’t need another mother hen right now.

“I promised to do extra reps next session. I need to stay in her good graces so she signs off on me getting back on the ice. I have to play nice.” I chuckle, glancing over to see if my favorite therapist has made another appearance.

I don’t need to be a mind reader to know Remy is rolling his eyes at me right about now. “True. But you know you won’t be playing any real hockey for the foreseeable future.”

“I thought all I needed was the doctor’s all clear to get back to playing full time?”

“You do, but you also need to get the approval of the head athletic trainer and coach.”

I scoff, knowing damn well no one on the Wolverines is going to give a shit about how I’m really doing. All Spencer and Craig want is the pretty paper from the doctor saying they’ve cleared me to lace up my skates again. As long as they have that, they won’t mind throwing me or anyone else right back into the thick of things. Hell, they only wait for the doctor to sign off on it for liability reasons. No one wants to get sued, although I believe there’s something in my contract that says I can’t sue them for any reason, but I digress.

“Spencer and Craig only need the doctor’s all clear. It wouldn’t be the first time they put me back into the rotation before I should’ve been.”

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that, Hendrix. But you are no longer the Wolverines’ problem. You’ve been traded. Well, more like purchased, but you didn’t hear that from me.”

I hold my breath, waiting for him to tell me where I will spend the duration of my hockey career. I’m only twenty-six, but my body has other ideas. I’ve been pushing my body to the limit for years, and now it’s time for me to pay the piper. Remy and I both know it, but I refuse to speak it into existence.

“Are you going to tell me who purchased me?”

The words taste like bile in my throat, but I swallow them down. I spent the last eight seasons giving the Wolverines my all. I re-signed with them with a pay cut because the franchise wasn’t doing well, giving them my loyalty when I could have had my choice of teams to play for. And now that I need my team to fall back on, they sell me off to the highest bidder?

“Wait, is that even legal? I thought my contract was up at the end of the season? How can they make more money off me when I’m not even a part of the team?”

“Selling a person is completely illegal, but purchasing the remaining months on your contract is another thing entirely.” Remy chuckles before getting to the point. “There’s a tiny loophole in your contract that the Wolverines have exploited. They can keep you on the team roster until the first day of the season. I originally asked for the clause to be built into your contract to ensure they didn’t drop you while we were in contract negotiations. However, they used it as a tool to evaluate the potential of you recovering completely in time for the season, while also giving you more time to convince Cooper to come to the dark side.”

“Fucking assholes,” I scoff, wanting to be surprised, but I’m not.

The only thing the Wolverines care about is their bottom line and winning championships. They will do anything and everything to make those things happen, no matter what the cost.

“Yes, tell me about it. Needless to say, they made a shit ton of money, but didn’t get what they wanted in the end.”

I wait impatiently for him to give me a hint of what team I’ll be on, but he says nothing. Remy has always had a flair for the dramatic when he’s delivering news, but you’d think he would have a sense of urgency about it.

Getting me a new contract with the Wolverines or another team is mutually beneficial for both of us—me having a team to continue my career and him getting a big fat payout from whatever monetary terms he can negotiate for me. Unlike most agents, he only takes a modest 3 percent from anything I make, although I’d pay him more if he’d let me. Remy has earned every penny from me and deserves a bonus for putting up with my bullshit regularly.

“Either tell me now, or I’m hanging up. Some of us have things to do,” I growl, losing my patience with Remy and his games.

“You should just call me back when you get home. Not in the car and not in a public place.” I open my mouth to interject, but he cuts me off. “Before you freak out and demand answers, I don’t think it’s a good idea right now. You’re in the middle of therapy and need to focus on your exercises. You are going to have a million questions for me, and I expect there to be a lot of yelling.”

“The yelling is definitely going to happen after you’ve kept me on the phone all this time for no goddamn reason.” I take in a deep breath, attempting to calm myself down enough to continue this conversation. “Besides, I'm not in therapy anymore.”

“I know patience isn’t a virtue you have gained, but call me in a few hours. Go home, take a shower, and have some dinner. I should have all the kinks ironed out by the time you call. I doubt you’ll have any major complaints, especially with the obscene amount of money they plan on paying you to potentially ride the bench next season.”

“I’ll be ready to play. I can’t spend a season rotting on the bench, Remy.”

“Cole, you may not have a choice.” Remy sighs loudly into the phone. “You had a pretty severe concussion, your fourth one this season alone, and a complete tear of your rotator cuff and surrounding ligaments. You also had an open instead of an arthroscopic surgery to repair said shoulder. That shit takes time to heal. No one wants you to re-injure yourself after such invasive surgery. The head trainer will determine when you’re ready to get into the lineup.”

I want to rebut his comments, but I know deep down he’s right. The doctor told me that coming back from a shoulder injury this severe would take time and potentially longer than the usually predicted six months to a year. The use and movement of my arm are as important as my ability to skate. I can’t rush this, and judging by the pain I felt doing a simple stretch a few minutes ago, it’s only going to get worse before it gets better. Most of the recovery for these injuries depends on my body and me putting in the needed work to get better.

I can complain about it all I want, but if I rush this rehab and injure my shoulder again, it could mean the end of my career and any chance at the Stanley Cup. But the unknown about my position on the team is not something I’m used to having to deal with. I didn’t go to college like Cooper tried to force me to do. I have nothing to fall back on, and at twenty-six, that’s terrifying. Hockey is all I know, all I’m good at. And it’s the only way I know how to take care of myself without any help from anyone.

“You are so much like—never mind, forget I said anything. Just call me later. Right now, I want you to focus on getting home safely. We will talk about the rest later.”

By now, the entire league knows about my injury in the conference finals. I wouldn’t be surprised if the Wolverines management hasn’t already put out a press release about the monumental deal they made by signing my career away. It feels like I lost everything the night I was injured, and I can’t help but wonder where that leaves me. From what it sounds like, Remy negotiated me a pretty sweet deal somewhere. But how many years is the contract for? And how will those years be spent? I don’t want to ride the bench until I’m forced to retire. I would love nothing more than to find a place on this new team. A place on the ice with my teammates in pursuit of a championship that isn’t tainted by some wish to have access to one or both of my brothers.

But everything is so up in the air right now, I can’t help but wonder if things would be different if I had scored the game-winning goal in that shootout against the Timberwolves. Would management still have wanted to trade me for an ungodly amount of money? Knowing them, probably, but I would’ve loved the chance to have a choice. Instead, I’ve been sold to a team I don’t know, and some trainer holds all the power on whether I ever step foot on the ice again.

“That’s a lot easier said than done, Remy.”

“True. But you don’t have any other choice, Hendrix. I have other people to annoy,” Remy says before hanging up the phone.

I shove my phone into my pocket and head for my car, before spinning on my heels and heading back into the therapy office. I may have lost my chance at a date with Michele, but that doesn’t mean I can’t find an available appointment on her schedule and give it another shot. It's not much, but at least I can spend a few more minutes not focusing on the fact that this one simple trade deal has the potential of ruining the rest of my life